


World's Finest: County Fair

by WingFeathers



Series: World's Finest: The Missing Issues [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne Does Not Trust Green Lantern Hal Jordan, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Carnival, Dick Grayson is Robin, Family Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Halbarry Optional, M/M, Mentioned Hal Jordan, POV Clark Kent, Pre-Crisis, Protective Bruce Wayne, Secret Identities, Silver Age, So much junk food, UNCLE CLARK, but gay, just a guy on an outing with his boyfriend and his boyfriend's ward, mentioned Barry Allen - Freeform, more family than romance, not actively but during this era, they're out with young teen Dick so the romance is very light, with a little Post-Crisis flavor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 04:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers
Summary: Early in their careers, Clark and Bruce give dating a go.  Clark takes a day off saving the world to take Bruce and Dick to a county fair.  Something fun together, all three of them, to keep Dick from feeling jilted by the new arrangement.But can you call it a date when you bring your boyfriend's 13-year-old ward along? And can Clark Kentactuallytake a day off?(This followsGrounded, but it is more of a spin-off than a sequel.)





	World's Finest: County Fair

**Author's Note:**

> This story and the ensuing series is inspired by the amazing Silver Age _World's Finest Comics_ run. The covers, such as [this one](https://www.dalerobertscomics.com/image/cache/data/worldsfinest23-max-1400.jpg), and [this one](https://www.dalerobertscomics.com/image/cache/data/worldsfinest23-max-1400.jpg), are direct inspiration for this particular story.
> 
> Also, since I do frequently lift references to comics, I feel the need to note that I wrote Clark's reflection on hearing the helpers well before reading Bendis saying pretty much the exact same thing in Superman #2.
> 
> I've put triggers at the end note to avoid spoiling. They're all sort of eating-centric as a heads-up, so check that out if it may apply to you. Otherwise, don't spoil yourself!

Around the world, people screamed for help.

And around the world, other people shouted back, answering their calls. Parents, friends, firefighters, superheroes, strangers just passing by.

It was the second set of sounds that gave Clark hope, that let him approach something of a normal human life himself. Those sounds let him sleep at night. Let him spend an hour listening to Lois and Jimmy gossip about office drama. 

Let him take a day off to go on a date to a county fair.

If you could call it a date, bringing not only your boyfriend but your boyfriend’s kid. _Date_ wasn’t quite the right word for it, but what _was_ the word for that? Clark didn’t know it. A family outing? Not quite right, either. _Uncle_ Clark or no.

He hated not having the right word. Curse of being a writer.

Dick’s elbow poked into Clark’s ribs, shaking him out of his thoughts. Stupid thoughts, really. He’d hung out with Bruce and Dick plenty of times and never needed a word for it. Granted, dinner at the Manor was about the only kind of get-together that Bruce had allowed before—outside of hero business, of course.

Business which he _could_ be doing right now, if he hadn’t been the one to insist that they do something fun together, all three of them. To keep Dick from feeling jilted by the new arrangement.

“Do it,” Dick said, chewing down a long ribbon of black licorice and pointing to a flashing machine. Bright neon read:

_ARE YOU AS STRONG AS THE MAN OF STEEL? TEST YOURSELF!_

Clark shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a such a good idea.”

“Why? Afraid you’ll _fail_?”

Even Bruce laughed at that.

“I would neither fail nor succeed,” Clark said, wiping a smudge off his glasses. “I’m perfectly average.”

“Perfectly average _huge_ guy who grew up throwing hay bales by the mile,” Dick countered.

Unfortunately, they’d now lingered long enough to attract the attention of the carnie working the station. He turned toward them, and the afternoon sun reflected off of his metal name tag, which read _Ron._

“Come right up, fellas! Find out if you’re _man_ enough to pass our mighty feat of strength!”

Clark scoffed. “I really don’t need a machine to tell me—”

“What do we win?” Dick shouted back.

Ron’s smile lit up like the neon lights above his head. “I like the way you think, friend!”

He waved them over and Dick skipped forward, tearing off another piece of licorice from his candy bag. Clark looked back at Bruce, who shrugged and followed suit.

Dick pointed at an oversized, overstuffed dinosaur and grinned. “Bruuuuuce.”

“If you want it, you win it,” Bruce said. 

Dick groaned. “Come on! I need it. _We_ need it.”

“Then try. You have tickets. Is _this_ where you want to use them?”

“Yes!” Dick nodded toward the dinosaur again. “But you have to do it. Or Uncle Clark. I don’t want to just try and lose. That would be _wasteful_.”

Clark prepared himself for the inevitable lecture from Bruce about parenting and boundaries or something of the sort and handed over a ticket. “Oh, heck. Let’s give it a go, Bruce.”

“That’s the spirit! So, fellas, what do you do when you’re not out at the fair?”

“Well, I’m a reporter,” Clark said.

“O-ho, a newsman! And you, sir, with the son, what’s your story?”

Bruce pulled his gaze away from the distant scene off to their left. “I’m in business,” he said.

“I see, I see.” Ron gestured to the contraption in front of them. “Well, come right up. You just grip this handle here, and our first-rate strength-o-meter will tell you just how strong you are! A mouse? A man? A _he-_ man? Or a _Super-Man_?!”

Clark folded his arms and bit back a question about whether they got any female carnival-goers to participate with that kind of ridiculous pitch. Lois would’ve asked, if she’d been here. Would’ve chewed the guy out, probably, not caring that the carnival worker was just working with what he’d been given. After all, the words were printed right there on the machine: _MOUSE, MAN, HE-MAN, SUPER-MAN_.

“And you know I can’t swindle you, good friends, because this is a machine! It doesn’t lie! You know, Superman _himself_ tested it for accuracy!”

“ _Did_ he?” asked Bruce, a smile dancing on the corner of his lips.

“Yessiree!”

“I can do it,” Bruce whispered over to Clark. “Don’t fret yourself, mild-mannered reporter.”

Clark shook his head and rolled back his shoulders. “No, I got this.”

“O-ho!” Ron clapped his hands. “Well, I gotta say, if anyone can pass our test, I’d reckon it’s you. This your boy here?”

“He’s _mine_ ,” Bruce said.

“Of course, of course. I see the resemblance.”

Clark could hear Bruce’s eyes rolling.

“Well, maybe _you_ want to give it a go, sir. Get your son this prize he’s so keen on.”

“I guess one try can’t hurt,” Bruce said, sending Dick into a triumphant dance.

He stepped up, took the levers in his hands, and squeezed. The dial whirred around and around before swinging up to _HE-MAN_. Ron whistled, not hiding his relief that Bruce had not shown his machine up.

“Does that get us the prize?” Dick asked.

“Not the top prize, friend,” said Ron, though nothing about his tensed body language and shifting eyes read _friend_ , “but you can choose one from this display over here.”

“Aw, shucks.” Dick cocked his head and looked at the array of toys—none of which came close to the giant dinosaur he’d set his eyes on. “I guess the big lollipop’ll do.”

“ _I_ won the prize,” Bruce noted. “So I think _I_ get to pick it out.”

Dick huffed. “Ugh, fine. What do _you_ want?”

“We’ll take the little green alien,” said Bruce, pointing it out. The carnie handed it to them, and Bruce leaned over to Dick. He whispered, as if he wasn’t perfectly aware that Clark could hear every word: “Reminds me of someone, don’t you think?”

Dick almost burst into laughter, but muffled it in his sleeve.

“So, Mister Reporter,” said Ron, “You think you can beat your friend here?”

Clark rolled up the sleeves of his flannel—Bruce had given him such grief about the fashion choice, but his eyes now fell on Clark’s forearms and then made their way upwards, and his expression wore definitely more approval than disdain. 

“Yeah,” Clark said. “Yeah, I reckon so.”

Bruce crossed his arms. “Fine, go ahead, _Clark_.”

Clark looked at the meter and gritted his teeth. The word itself seemed a challenge: _SUPER-MAN_. Someone he, as far as Ron and all bystanders were concerned, was not.

But heck, he could at least beat Bruce without blowing his cover.

He stepped up to the machine, gripped the plastic handles that coated the metal levers, and did his best approximation of a totally-human-but-still-pretty-strong-guy’s level of strength. The arrow began to spin… and then the faint electric whirr came to a stop.

And then it seemed to sigh and fall, back to _MOUSE_.

“Hrn,” Bruce said, eyes narrowing.

Clark’s brow furrowed as he looked Ron over for any sign of a scam, but the problem hadn’t come in that direction. It wasn’t the carnie, but the circus boy. Hidden behind the machine—at least hidden to Ron, since Clark could see through it well enough—Dick was swinging the power cable, whistling a tune of over-exaggerated innocence.

“Oh, well,” Clark said, letting go. “Guess I’m just a, uh, mouse.”

“Country Mouse,” said Bruce, leaning over the other side of the machine, next to Ron.

Clark grimaced. “No prizes for me, huh, Ron?”

“Sorry, friend.”

“Too bad. I’d _really_ hoped to get Dick that dinosaur he wanted.”

“Oh, I’ll be just _fine_ ,” Dick said, propping his chin on the machine and grinning as he plugged it back in. “I can probably find another giant T-Rex _somewhere_.”

“I’m _sure_ you can,” said Bruce. “Let’s move along, unless you’re going to try?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’d probably be better than a _mouse_ though,” Dick said, chuckling to himself as he knocked into Clark. “Maybe between mouse and man. Hey! That’d be a great superhero: the Mouse-Man!”

Bruce reached an arm around Dick and began to forcibly guide the boy away. “That’s ridiculous, Dick.”

“Pfft, no more ridiculous than bats,” Dick muttered.

Clark looked back at the machine. It was just a stupid thing, but it really bothered him. _Mouse_. He was half-tempted to go back and try again, but he’d never hear the end of Bruce’s ridicule for that. He didn’t need affirmation from a machine.

“Mice don’t have echolocation, though,” he said, making long strides to catch up with Bruce and Dick.

“Or wings,” Bruce added.

“And they’re not nearly as spooky.” Clark winked at Bruce.

“Hey, Bruce. Can I get popcorn?” Dick asked, quite out of nowhere. “I mean, _may_ I? Please?”

“Only if you give Clark his prize.”

“ _What_? But he’s mine!” Dick squeezed the alien tight. “I named him and everything! He’s Kal!”

Clark snorted back a laugh. “You won it, Bruce, not me.”

“Oh, please. We all know Dick cheated.”

“Gasp!” Dick shouted, clutching his hands to his chest, Kal the Alien held tight. “I would _never_!”

“The machine _wasn’t_ lined with lead,” Clark noted. “You _know_ that, right?”

Dick scrunched his face. “Still got you, though. For a second.”

Clark wobbled his head. “Maybe _half_ a second.”

Dick’s grin could have lit up the whole fairground. He held the stuffed alien out. “Here you go. Bruce is right. You deserve it. Um. You can rename him, if you want.”

The little plush alien had three eyes, two antennae, and a sharp little blue suit. “He’s cute,” Clark said. “But he doesn’t look very Kryptonian, if you ask me. More like that green _kllrg_ friend we met.”

“Kllrg? I’m sure I have _no idea_ what you mean,” Dick said. “I’ve never befriended any aliens, green or otherwise.”

Clark laughed. “It’s okay. You keep him.”

“No, you! Put him on your desk!”

Clark eyed the little alien again. Jimmy would get a kick out of it, probably.

“Well, maybe I will. Say, Bruce—” Suddenly, Clark remembered that he _had_ noticed, just barely, Bruce sneaking off, at least a minute ago.

“Where’d he ghost off to this time?” Dick asked.

Clark scanned the crowd, and then pointed at a booth ahead of them. “Popcorn.”

Sure enough, Bruce returned, an oversized bag of kettle-corn and a soda in tow. “It’s for _all_ of us to share,” he cautioned. “So don’t eat and drink it all in one go.”

“ _Thank_ you, Bruce!”

Dick took the bag, leaned his face over it, and breathed it in, deep. “Mmmmmmm,” he said. “Smells like home.”

“Not that _home_ isn’t home,” Dick quickly backpedalled. “It’s just that—”

Bruce held a hand up. “I get it.”

Relief smoothed Dick’s face, and he stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “ _So_ good,” he declared. “I could probably eat this _all_ day.”

“Please don’t,” Bruce said, removing the bag from Dick’s hands.

The joyful screams of families on rides mixed with the far-off terrified screams of people caught in trouble and in need of aid. People in this little town, people in Gotham, in Metropolis, people across the world. But Ma had cautioned him to take time for himself, to give this relationship some kind of chance by letting himself just be _Clark_ for a while. _Even God took a day to rest_ , she’d said _._

So Clark had tried all afternoon to ignore the cries for help. He pressed his palms against his temples and tried to focus them out. Other people had it handled.

Bruce’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to the fair.

“Do you need to go?” he asked.

Not judging. Not hurt. Just a question. That was a nice thing about being with Bruce—he understood the _concept_ of the responsibility on Clark’s shoulders, even if he couldn’t know what it was like to always filter, always resist responding.

He shook his head. “I don’t… think so.”

Bruce nodded and dropped his hand. “If you do… we’ll understand.”

“No,” said Clark, “it’ll… it’ll be okay. Hal and Barry are covering, and—”

“Like I said: do you need to go?” Bruce repeated, his eyebrows tightening. His hand holding the popcorn drifted into Dick’s reach, though after Dick’s second handful, he swiped it away again. “Barry’s responsible enough, but—”

“You know, Bruce, Hal’s competent, too. He was chosen for his job out of everyone on Earth. _Including_ you.”

Dick stifled a laugh as Bruce tightened his eyebrows further and said, “Excuse me for not considering willpower to be the sole criterion of character.”

“This is _exactly_ why I didn’t tell you before,” said Clark, waving off the criticism. “ _I_ trust them. They’re our friends.”

“Hn.”

“Teammates, then. And teams are built on trust, Bruce. Can we just focus on the fair?”

Bruce shrugged. “ _I’m_ focused.”

“So,” Clark sighed. “What should we hit next? More agricultural displays? The ferris wheel? More games?”

“This was _your_ idea.” Bruce looked across the carnival, hardly restraining the disgust on his face. “I’ll _trust_ your choice.”

Great. Apparently Bruce was now going to be stuck in grump-mode for the rest of the night. “Say, Dick, you wanna learn the secret to the mallet strike?”

Dick held his next handful of popcorn in hand, paused his sip of soda, and looked up. “Which secret?”

Bruce scoffed. “You mean that it’s not really about strength, but all about accuracy?”

“Oh-oh,” nodded Dick. “I knew that one.”

Clark folded his arms across his chest and glared at Bruce. “How did _you_ know, Mister Too-Good-For-Fairs?”

“It’s obvious if you look,” said Bruce, in that way of his that almost felt insulting but somehow carried just enough charisma to be convincing. It _was_ obvious, wasn’t it? “Not to mention, I’m from _Gotham_ , Clark. We may not have much in the way of biggest tomato, but Amusement Mile was actually quite the destination when I was young.”

“Now it’s like seventy-percent creeps,” Dick sighed. “Gotham ruins _everything_.”

“Oh, is that what happened? You were _so_ cute when I got you,” Bruce jibed.

Dick laughed. “ _Got me_? What, at the orphan store?”

“I think you’re still cute,” Clark said, ruffling Dick’s hair, even as Dick swatted at him.

“Hey-ey-ey, Uncle _Clark_ ,” Dick whined. “You’re messing it all up!”

“He _did_ spend twenty minutes on his hair,” Bruce noted. “God knows why.”

“Uh, maybe because we were going out in _public_ , and whenever that happens, people take pictures? _Gosh_ , it’s like you don’t even know you’re a minor celebrity.”

“Oooh, _minor_ ,” Clark echoed. “Harsh.”

He winked at Dick, but Dick’s attention was captured elsewhere.

“Hold on, I’ll be _right_ back. Don’t go anywhere. And _don’t_ eat my popcorn.”

Dick disappeared into the crowd, and Bruce glanced back at Clark. 

“Thank you,” he said.

Clark tilted his head. “For?”

“Making Dick happy. Being patient with him.”

Clark laughed. “It’s not a _favor_.”

“I know. I just…” Bruce glanced down, and the lid of his baseball cap hid half his face. “Appreciate it.” He lifted his head just enough to reveal his pale eyes. “You’d be a better guardian than me.”

“Self-deprecation isn’t attractive, Bruce.”

Bruce shrugged.

“You remember that I live in a studio apartment, right? My food there consists of cereal, eggs, and some leftover Indian from a working take-out dinner that Lois ordered. I work about fifty hours a week—and that’s only my _paying_ job—not that it pays very much, given student loans and rent and dry-cleaning and all that.” Clark shook his head in exasperation. “I have to set a reminder to make sure I do laundry enough to not run completely out of clothes, because it’s the _last_ thing on my mind. If social services tried to interview me as a prospective parent, they’d run the other way screaming.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Bruce mumbled.

“You _know_ I’m not. Heck, you well know that getting through two hours of downtime without needing to respond to some emergency is next to impossible.”

“I _said_ you can leave if you need to!”

“I know you did! That’s not what I meant.” Clark sighed, though he did let himself hear the calls again. But it was okay. Every cry for help also came with a call of a helper. Clark wasn’t the only one. “I’m not saying _now_. I just… I’m good as _Uncle_ Clark. I get to play games and toss him in the air and indulge him with fried dough and leave the consequences to you.”

“I’d forgotten about the fried dough. I should’ve said no on the kettle corn. He’s going to make himself sick.”

“See? The only reason things are harder for you is that you have to handle the less fun parts, too. But he loves you.”

“Hn.” Bruce’s eyes drifted in the direction that Dick had run off to. After a second, a smile tugged on his lips, though it still had a little sadness to it. 

“You know, Bruce, love isn’t a contest.”

Bruce’s smile grew as he looked back at Clark, forming wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. There was nothing else like that—Bruce _genuinely_ happy. “Is that so?”

Clark reached out and took Bruce’s hand, but Bruce responded with a quick and feeble squeeze before sliding his hands into his pockets. He looked back out at the crowd, scanning for Dick again.

“On the right,” said Clark. Dick was slipping around the crowd, hurrying forward. Finally, he emerged and began to sprint back toward them, carrying a yellow-and-white pile of Dippin’ Dots in a plastic cup. 

“Look, Uncle Clark, SPACE ICE CREAM.” He clicked a switch on the cup, which began lighting up in flashing blue and white and green as Dick made robot-like sound effects. “I thought Kal the Alien would like it.”

“Wow, very… space-y.”

Dick laughed. “Is this what you have in the f—” He cupped his free hand around his mouth and whispered in his lowest, quietest voice: “Fortress of Solitude?”

“You know, I can’t say it is.”

“Your loss. Wanna try?”

Clark gave the sweating beads of ice cream a wary look. “All right, then.” 

The small bite only made him more confused. “What _flavor_ is that?”

“Kettle corn!” Dick shoveled another bite with his spoon.

“Kettle corn?” Clark shook the bag of popcorn. “Don’t we already have that?”

“Yesh,” said Dick, his mouth now full of tiny ice-cream dots. He took the orange soda from Clark’s other hand and washed the ice cream down with it.

“Disgusting,” Bruce commented.

“ _Me_?”

“Yes, _you_.” He swiped his hat off by the lid and flicked Dick in the arm with the floppy cap.

Dick shrugged, lifted the cup, and poured more space ice cream into his mouth. “I was never allowed to eat all this as a kid. The circus had all this food but I had to perform.”

“You _still_ aren’t allowed to eat this,” Bruce noted, but he made no effort to take the ice cream away. “But you’re the one who’ll have to explain to Alfred why you aren’t hungry for his dinner.”

Dick grinned, ear to ear. “Faulty logic, Brucester. I always have room for more. It’s my acrobat metabolism,” he explained. “Either of you want any more before it melts?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Clark answered. “If I want kettle corn, I’ll just have the original.”

Dick held out the cup to Bruce. “Last chance.”

“I’ll pass, but thank you for offering.”

“Kay.” Dick shrugged and downed the rest. “So. I saw a ride when I was getting my space ice cream…”

“What kind of ride?”

“Um, a spinning one?”

“Hn,” Bruce’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

“What? But I’m _good_ at spinning. When I did the quadruple, I was spinning at like—”

“Eighty miles an hour,” Bruce supplied. “Yes, we _all_ know.”

“I still do. I can go on a _stupid_ ride.”

“You never do your somersaults after, what? Two corndogs, fried dough, half a bag of popcorn, soda, and ice cream?”

“And the licorice,” Clark chimed in.

Dick glared at him. “Traitor!”

“Anyway,” continued Bruce, “I’m not worried about your inner ear. I’m worried about that contraption. It doesn’t look safe.”

“It doesn’t…” Dick looked between the ride and Bruce, and then to Clark. The boy’s eyes widened and he shook his head, as if saying, _Can you believe this guy?_

“It’s doesn’t look _safe_? Suddenly _you_ ,” he said, wagging a finger at Bruce, “are worried about _safety_?”

Bruce shot out a fist around Dick’s wrist as he also lowered himself to see Dick eye-to-eye. “I’m _always_ worried about your safety. Do you understand?”

Dick’s eyes flashed, and he twisted his arm expertly, freeing himself from Bruce’s grip. “But not your _own_.”

“This isn’t the time or place, Dick.”

Dick huffed, but his anger dissolved as his eyes drifted over to Clark. “Can we just go on the ride and stop making everything so _dramatic_?”

“Bruce,” Clark jumped in, “why don’t I at least go take a look at it?”

“Take a _look_?” Bruce raised a questioning eyebrow and then shrugged. “Sure. We can do that.”

Dick turned down the paved midway path with Bruce following in his wake. Clark absent-mindedly followed after Bruce, but his actual attention was on the ride. He could see it, past the crowd and the booths: one of those classic types, with small gondola cars suspended by wires. The ride would spin, and the cars would rise. It didn’t look like much. Unless Dick had meant… Clark gazed further back, to another “spinning” ride: this one was more of a strange pendulum with a scrambling arm to spin the riders in three different ways all at once. 

“Which one did you mean?” Clark asked.

“There are _two_?” Bruce looked out at the tall structures peeking over the crowd. “Okay, compromise: you go on the flying one, not the…” He waved his hand in a complex turn. “I don’t want any regurgitated kettle-corn-ice-cream on my leather interiors.”

“I’d _never_ ,” Dick protested, but he walked in the direction of the simpler ride anyway. 

“It looks structurally sound to me,” Clark declared, after a x-ray scan of the joints of the ride.

Bruce sighed and followed Dick, though he didn’t look happy about it. His jaw clenched, like it always did when he was tense. Clark pulled up the rear as they eventually came to the ride, where the ride operator was making Dick measure his height to pass the safety restrictions.

“Looks like you’ll be good to ride!” the operator said.

And then the operator saw Bruce and Clark.

“Uh. Are these guys with you?”

Dick nodded.

The operator grimaced. “Only two to a car, I’m afraid.”

“I can go with a stranger,” Dick offered. “You two share a car.”

“Uh, actually, one of you _can_ go with the boy—we’d prefer it—assuming you fall under our weight restrictions.”

“Weight restrictions?” Bruce asked. “How fragile are we talking?”

“We like to limit to one-seventy per. But, um, as long as you don’t top three-forty total…”

“Which nixes the two of us,” Clark reasoned.

The operator shrugged. “You can step on the scale and see…”

“No need,” Bruce interrupted. “I’m two-ten. He’s two-thirty-five.”

Clark spun toward Bruce. “How do you know?”

Bruce gestured to the giant scale in front of them. “Am I wrong?”

Clark stepped onto it. The arrow swung around, right in between the marks for _230_ and _240._ “Fine,” he said, stepping off. “Of _course_ you know. And Dick?”

Bruce furrowed his brow. “With or without the ice cream and fried dough?”

Dick stuck out his tongue. “You can’t keep track. I’m growing too fast.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and whispered to Clark, “He’s ninety-six in the morning and ninety-nine in the evening.”

“Well, step on up and let’s see,” said the operator.

Dick stepped up, but before the needle could settle, Clark found purchase for a single toe.

“ _One hundred and fifty?_ ” Dick shouted. 

He spun around, but Clark had already snapped back into place. Dick’s eyes were panicked: at one-fifty, even sharing a car with Bruce would put him over the limit. Not that he could be one-fifty—but the frantic shock came before the cool logic. That settled in, though.

“That’s _gotta_ be broken!” He put his hands on his hips and stared down the operator. “I do _not_ weigh that much! I’ve never broken one hundred!”

“Must be all the fried dough,” Clark joked, not quite holding back a chuckle.

Dick’s eyes flashed in fury, and then he laughed, loud and joyous. “Oh my _gosh_ , it was _you_.” He glanced behind, quick as he could, to see the needle pointing just a smidgeon past _100_.

“Okay and maybe I had a lot of fried dough. But not fifty pounds of it.”

Clark laughed, and even Bruce joined in.

“You’re fine to ride with your big friend here,” the operator declared, pointing at Clark. And then he turned to Bruce. “Unless _you_ wanted to ride with him…”

“I still don’t know if this is a good idea,” Bruce muttered.

“It looks safe, Bruce,” Clark hissed back. “I checked.”

“Dick, go scope out the best seat. I’ll be right there.” Bruce turned toward Clark now, hiding his words and lips from Dick’s sight. “You can’t know that. If the lines break…”

Clark angled his head down, bringing his forehead to almost touch Bruce’s. “He swings from lines all the time,” Clark whispered. “How is this different?”

“I _make_ those,” Bruce said, his voice low in his throat. “I _check_ those. I know they won’t break.”

“These won’t either,” Clark insisted, but it wasn’t a promise he could actually make. Accidents did happen. They all knew that. “I’ll go, then. If anything happens, I can keep him safe, easy.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed. “I can—”

“Bruce. Let me.” Clark leaned past Bruce and waved to Dick, who’d returned from his circle around the ride. “What d’ya say, Dick? You and me?”

Dick lit up. “Yeah, okay! Is Bruce going alone, or…?”

Bruce shook his head. “One of us has to watch after all this stuff,” he said, holding out the kettle corn, drink, licorice, and stuffed alien. “What if someone steals it?”

Dick laughed. “O- _kay,_ We’ll do something you want next, promise.”

“You mean it? We can go home?” Bruce elbowed Clark in the stomach. “You co-sign that promise?”

“ _Ow_ ,” Clark whined.

“Oh _please_ ,” Bruce said. “That did _not_ hurt.”

“Did too,” said Clark, his face straight as ever. He tapped his heart and flashed a smile. “Hurt right here.” 

Dick cackled behind them.

“Get on your ride, you two,” Bruce ordered. “And then we’re going home. Alfred’s made dinner for us all. With _vegetables_.”

“Ugh, _vegetables_ ,” Dick whined, as if he wouldn’t scarf them down and love every bite. Clark had never seen Alfred make Dick a meal he didn’t like, even if he—like any young teen—preferred heavy carbs that could keep up with his metabolism. Talk about _faster than a speeding bullet_.

Clark turned back and waved toward Bruce, who seemed to still be scrutinizing the structural integrity of the machine. Clark sighed and turned his attention back to Dick, who tugged him toward his chosen seat.

“I’m surprised you even want to do this,” he said, as they took a seat in the open gondola. “It seems a little tame, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I did want the super-spin one, but you saw Bruce’s face. Even now, he looks like he thinks we’re gonna die.”

A static-filled voice came over a speaker above them. “Welcome to the High Fly! Please bring the bar to fit snugly over your legs and keep your hands on it or the car at all times. Do not grab the rope at any point. Remain seated upright for the entire ride, and do not remove the bar until ordered. Thank you, and enjoy the ride.”

“He does care about his own safety too, you know,” Clark said as their gondola began to move, making an gentle circle.

Dick’s eyebrows lowered. Had they gained an added measure of darkness since last Clark remembered? Or were his expressions just becoming more and more grown-up?

“He’s far more careful than he was before you came around. He knows there’s someone relying on him to come home.” Clark swallowed. He’d never been that for Bruce. He probably never would be. “I’m sure it’s hard to believe, but the Bruce you know is one who doesn’t take unnecessary risks. Who is aware of the dangers he faces. Who exercises extraordinary caution.”

“But the League—”

“Dick, _I’m_ on the League. You think I just let him rush into battle against monstrous alien things six times his size without backup? I have his back.”

Dick leaned his elbows on the rail of the gondola and looked away, but a contented smile stretched across his face. “You wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

“That’s right.”

Dick’s smile widened into a grin, and his eyes came back to Clark’s. The gondola rose higher still, sending them at an angle. The ride was awfully tame, but it was nice, too, to have a moment with Dick.

“Anyone who wants to hurt him,” Clark continued, “is going through me first.”

“‘Cause he’s your boyfriend?”

Clark laughed. “Because he’s my teammate and my friend. It’s not just me. Diana keeps an eye on him too. Part of our job is to keep him safe so he can go on giving us orders and criticizing everyone.”

“Yeah, I get it. That’s my job, too. But it’s a _little_ because he’s your boyfriend, isn’t it?”

“I’d do it regardless,” Clark insisted. It was true, after all. And Dick should know that. Which raised a different question: “I never asked… are you okay with this? With _us_? Bruce says you were happy when he told you, and I know you _thought_ we were together before we even were, but I don’t want to assume anything.”

“I’m okay,” Dick insisted. “I mean. I guess it’s a little weird. But mostly good. Bruce is actually kind of _happy_? I mean like more than usual. Like he’s _comfortable_. Safe, maybe.”

Clark’s heart warmed, and he could have easily asked more, or held on to that moment, but instead he said, “I was asking if _you_ were happy. Not Bruce.”

“Well, Bruce being happy makes me happy,” Dick explained. “And I like having you around—more than usual. Doing stuff other than fighting bad guys.” He gestured out at the fair that was zooming past them, faster and faster, further and further below. “Like this.”

“I’m sensing a _but_ ,” he said, raising his voice slightly so that Dick could still hear over the whipping wind.

“No buts!”

“You’re sure?”

“I mean, you guys are a little googly-eyed over each other, which is _totally_ embarrassing. But it’s okay. It’s—”

Dick’s thoughts cut short as his face scrunched into one of… concentration? Anger?

“Dick?”

“Uncle Clark? I don’t feel so good.”

Sure enough, Clark heard something roil in Dick’s stomach. Clark swallowed hard. “Dick, we’ll be done in a few minutes…”

Dick shook his head apologetically. “I can’t—”

It was a split second choice, but thankfully, Clark had no trouble moving in a split second. He threw an arm around Dick and held him close, angling Dick’s head toward their laps to avoid sending any vomit hurtling out and into someone else’s face. And, sure enough, half a second later, a terrible retching sound filled Clark’s ears just before a disgusting hot wet pile of he-really-didn’t-even-want-to-think-about-what covered his pant-leg.

Clark leaned his head back and breathed in the fresh air that was whipping around them as Dick pulled himself up, hands covering his mouth. Thrilled screams rang out from other riders, but the prince of the trapeze didn’t have so much of a gleam of pleasure in his eye.

“Bruce was _right_ ,” Dick mumbled.

“Yeah,” said Clark, blowing frost onto the mess to stave off the smell and to prevent it from flicking off and hitting another rider. “He usually is.”

“I’m… _so_ … sorry.”

“It’s okay, kiddo,” said Clark, patting Dick’s shoulder. This wasn’t exactly what he had anticipated when he suggested they all go together to the fair, but somehow he found himself caring less about that and more blaming himself for being so indulgent. 

Maybe dating Bruce meant being a little more of a parent and a little less the fun uncle. The thought should’ve been a downer, but to Clark’s surprise, it wasn’t at all. 

“Is that the end of it, or…?”

Dick nodded. “I’m okay now,” he said, his words flying into the wind as they spun round and round. “I’m… I’m okay.”

Sure enough, the ride was already starting to slow. Very gently, of course, so they stayed high and angled down for a while, coming closer and closer down with each rotation.

“Don’t tell Bruce?” Dick asked.

Clark looked down at his pants. The ice was starting to thaw in the summer sun. “I have a feeling he’s going to figure it out,” he said, as Dick groaned and hid his face in his arms.

“This is so humiliating. I’m an _acrobat_.”

“Yeah, well. You’re an acrobat who stuffed his face right before a ride. It’s not a personal failing.”

Dick didn’t respond.

“It’s not like Bruce will tell anyone.”

“Except Alfred,” Dick mumbled into his arms.

“And Alfred’ll just want to make sure you’re cleaned up and feeling all right.”

Dick rolled his head to regard Clark with a raised eyebrow. “Just?”

“Okay,” Clark back-pedaled. “Maybe he’ll give you a hard time for eating so much junk. But you’ve learned your lesson. Alfred and Bruce—and I—just want you to be okay.”

The gondolas finally came back to their starting positions, taking a final turn before coming to rest.

“Why don’t you go ahead and find Bruce? Drink some water. I should uh, let the operator know what happened.”

Red peeked through Dick’s tan cheeks.

“Go on,” Clark insisted, removing his plaid over-shirt and tying it around his t-shirt and jeans, like it was the early nineties all over again. He peered around and spotted Bruce, semi-hiding around the corner of the entrance. He was accompanied by something hidden even further: a giant stuffed dinosaur. “Bruce’ll help clean you up.”

Dick nodded and sped off, fleeing from the scene and the potentially judging eyes of the operator, while Clark went up, hands folded apologetically.

“Hi, uh, sir—”

“You the one with the puking kid?” The operator rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I saw it. Thanks.”

And then the young fair worker turned his back and walked away, leaving Clark standing there. He’d expected something more, some demand for compensation, some indignation, but nothing.

Which raised the question: how often did these fair workers have to clean up disgusting messes on these rides?

Clark, no stranger to a hard day of humble work, shuddered at the thought. He left the ride platform, following down to where he’d seen Bruce.

Dick met him on the way, holding the dinosaur up. “ _Clark_! Look! Bruce got it for me!”

Clark stepped down to the ground, followed by Dick. “I saw,” he said, eyeing Bruce. “How’d you manage that? You’re as strong as Superman now?”

Bruce scoffed. “There are other games,” he said. “Come on, let’s go to the car.”

“You’re not going to tell us which one?”

Bruce nodded to the left, to a booth called _SHOOT THE STAR_.

“Sharp-shooting?” Clark asked.

“I’d _hardly_ call it that. BBs. Lots of idiots shooting at the star itself. You make a circle around instead, and—” He gestured to the dinosaur.

“Still. Guns aren’t… your _thing_.”

“I know _how_ to shoot them. For important situations.”

Clark looked to Dick, who was now carrying the dinosaur on his head as he walked ahead of them toward the car. He flashed a grin and a _Goodbye!_ or _Thanks!_ or _Good night!_ to every fair worker they passed. Clearly he’d bounced back from the embarrassment of his nausea.

“ _Important_ situations,” Clark repeated.

Bruce nodded. “Speaking of—I hear you need a fresh pair of pants. I can take care of that, if you’re still staying for dinner.”

“That…” He looked down at his pants. There was no way that stain was coming out by any means he knew. Alfred’s magic was his best chance—and if Alfred couldn’t fix it, there was no doubt that Bruce’s credit card would. Not that he liked taking charity from Bruce, but this was more _restitution_ than charity. “That would be good, yeah.”

Bruce unlocked the doors to the convertible, though Dick had already started vaulting over the side and into the tiny back seat, much to Bruce’s chagrin.

Bruce shook off his grimace and opened his own door, and Dick leaned over the side toward Clark. “For real? Can you stay for a movie, too?”

Clark smiled, taking his seat in the convertible. “Well, maybe…”

Bruce laughed. “And here I thought you’d find _some_ hopeless case or another in need of your attention.”

Clark looked back at Dick, who had wedged the ridiculously large dinosaur behind Clark’s seat and was now buckling into his own mini-seat behind Bruce. His gaze then shifted to Bruce, whose brow knit in concentration as he started up the car and then knit deeper in annoyance at the sound of “Mr. Blue Sky” coming through the speakers from Dick’s MP3 player. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got one or two hopeless cases right here.”

“Hey-ey!” Dick shouted, kicking out a sneaker-clad foot at Clark’s arm.

“Feet on the floor,” Bruce snapped, with the exasperation and immediacy of someone who has given the same instruction too many times.

Dick complied, and the car screeched out of the lot. 

“You should stay!” Dick pled. “Bruce just re-did the whole home theater. He added these new seats, and…”

As Dick’s words trailed on, a subtle smile found its way onto Bruce’s face. And then his eyes met Clark’s, and he smiled wider. _Like he’s comfortable_ , Dick had said. _Safe._

“All right,” Clark said, cutting off Dick’s rambling. “You’ve convinced me.”

Bruce’s brow knit, and he flashed a grave eye in Clark’s direction as he pulled the car onto the highway back to the city. “You’re sure? No emergencies out there beyond the abilities of our _friends_?”

The truth of it was, ever since the High Fly ride, he’d stopped actively listening. And that was probably a good thing. 

Ma would say so.

Clark lifted his chin to catch the lowering rays of the sun. The buzz of voices and sirens and screams never went away, but it was met by the cheerful beat of the old song, the hum of the engine and the tread of the tires, the wind flying over the open top, and the unmistakable heartbeats of Bruce and Dick.

Clark shook his head. “They’ll call if they need help,” he said. “Barring that, it’s my day off.”

**Author's Note:**

> TW: junk food, vomit, light fat/food-shaming
> 
> The kllrg alien is the feature of World's Finest Comics #74. I highly recommend it for a trip.
> 
> Keep an eye out or subscribe to the series if you liked it, because there is much more in the way of World's Finest to come! Probably not all this stomach-churningly fluffy. Aiming to update the series about once a week.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And So the Sun Still Rises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059074) by [Scotty1609](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scotty1609/pseuds/Scotty1609)




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